Haunting Rain
by planet p
Summary: AU; Eric works across town, in an office, behind a computer. It's not the most exciting job, but it's a job. Usually, he's fine with this, but then he starts dreaming about Lori. Post movie, six years later. Eric/Lori


**Haunting Rain** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _Tenderness_ or any of its characters.

* * *

1.

Rain pounds down on the windshield, and, for a moment, he watches the wipers slosh the water aside, instead of watching the road. Outside, it is grey. The sky is full of clouds. The rain reminds him of something, suddenly; of someone. Lori. When he looks, she's there, sitting beside him on the front seat… but not quite _beside_ him. Lori's eyes are like the windshield, full of water. The color in them hasn't changed, but they're darker. Like the clouds outside.

Lori is hurt.

For a moment, the thought occurs to him to say something: "Oh, would you grow up! You think anyone cares about your feelings? You think _I_ care? I couldn't care less, Lori! I'm hurt, too. Join the club! God, grow up!"

He says nothing, but thinks about the Chinese cop who'd thought Lori was his girlfriend, and he'd let it slide because if it pleased the cop to think Lori was his girlfriend, then that was fine, just as long as he left them alone, just as long as he left _him_ alone. He wonders now, what Lori had thought. When he hadn't said, no, they weren't an item, they were just friends, had Lori thought that there might still be chance for something to grow between them?

And then he remembers the motel. What an awful name for a motel: Fun Land Motel. Their stay there had been anything but. He remembers Lori telling him that she loved him, he remembers her telling him that he could do anything to her, anything he wanted; he remembers thinking, _You're not even my type, Lori, Goddamn it! I don't even want to _know_ you, don't you get it! What a loser!_

He didn't know what she expected, or why she'd thought opening up to him might do anything, might inexplicably strike a chord, or forge some bond between them – he'd told her already that 'soft' people made him ill, nothing but ill! And then she'd had to go and try for the sympathy act: No one would actually want me as their girlfriend, but maybe I could be, like, your practice girlfriend. Oh, boo hoo! All anybody ever wants me for is a plaything. Do you want me to be your plaything, too?

He'd wanted to slap her, or be ill, possibly even both. Then, when she'd tried to kiss him – then, he'd wanted to kill her! Actually, in truth, he'd wanted to kill her before then, too, for being a plain nosy pain in the backside, and for – so many times – failing to take the hint: What did you see, Lori? What do you remember, Lori? (God, girl, keep your fucking mouth shut about that shit? Are you fucking brain-damaged?)

Like he'd actually have kissed someone who spat their food out when they didn't like it, or ate blackberries from some plant in some reserve! Or thought, shit, wasn't everyone soft inside!

"No! No, Lori, they're not!" He'd wanted to yell at her so loudly she actually had to put her hands over her ears so she wouldn't go deaf. "Why are you so stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

Right now, they're in the car. He's taking Lori home. Home. He doesn't care that she'll be going home to Gary. He doesn't Goddamn care. He doesn't care that she's mad at him. He couldn't care less. She's alive and that's a fucking miracle in itself, he thinks. With her plain, fucking stupidity. With all of the shit she'd been saying. I saw you kissing that girl – blah, blah, blah!

She's alive and she's going to stay that way. And then she's going to fuck off. And stay the Hell out of his life! _Fuck you, Lori. Thanks, but no thanks! Now get lost! Just GET LOST!_

The wind picks up outside, and the car threatens misbehavior, but he's not totally bloody crazy – he can keep a car on the road when he needs to. He doesn't need to have everyone thinking he killed Lori on purpose, if the car veers off the road and crashes. In any case, all of that blood would only put him off. Lori, he thinks, would not look good covered in blood. She'd look even worse than she does already.

She was no beauty back then, and she still isn't – but, worse than that, she doesn't even believe that she looks nice, at all. The only people who want her are people who want to abuse her, and, Hell, they're not choosing her for her good looks, they're choosing her because they can tell she's been used before, and they think she'll let them get away with it, even if it's not what she wants.

Once, he'd felt like telling her she was a Goddamn pussy for letting anyone take advantage of her that way, but, in the end, he shut his mouth and swallowed that thought.

Now, he has the incredible urge to shake his head, or pull the car over and turf Lori out into the rain. He doesn't know why he's still thinking about her – it's been minutes and minutes, so what gives? He couldn't give a shit about Lori bloody Cranston, right? So what the fuck?

Shit, he can't take it any longer. He can't bloody concentrate on anything with Lori there, so he pulls up on the side of the road and decides, Damn it all, he's throwing her out. Let her find her own way home.

Lori doesn't look at him, and she doesn't move, but she's wearing that tacky dress – which, undoubtedly she chose because she thought he'd like it: he fucking hates it – and that stupid Fun Land sweater, like she's five years old instead of sixteen (or is it fifteen?) – she's a Goddamn liar to top it all off. _Isn't she great?_ he thinks, without a speck of compassion in sight.

He leans over her to shove open the car door, and, finally, she looks at him.

"It's raining," she says, in that bloody voice. Fuck, how he's come to hate the sound of her voice!

"No shit, Lori," he barks. "Get out!"

Lori doesn't move.

A hard ball of anger lodges itself in his chest. Stupid fucking girl! "Get the fuck out!" he yells, but Lori isn't going anywhere.

Instead, she stares straight ahead. Her eyes don't follow the back and forth swish-swash of the wipers, they just look blank. Even the hardness he swore he'd seen in them earlier is gone.

He clamps a hand around her upper arm. "Are you fucking deaf, Lori? Get out!" He gives her a hard shove, and that's when she looks at him.

Her eyes are wide and frightened. They're streaming with water, but she's not crying. That's just the windows reflecting in them. Her voice is different when she speaks – too high, like she's suddenly a little kid again – and she says, "Don't make me go out there, Eric, I'll dissolve."

He starts to frown, trying to work out why she'd say something like that, and, suddenly, he can't hold onto her any longer, and there's not a cloud in sight. She's too wet, and too heavy.

He tries to hold onto her, but there's nothing left. Even her hair has lost the smell of her cheap shampoo. All that's left is the smell of lake. And the cold. And Lori, slipping away, without a sound. Lori, suddenly too cold. Too… not Lori.

But what does he care?

Why should he care?

Except, he realizes, he's never held her before, not even once.

He remembers putting a hand on her shoulder, telling her to come inside. It was dark then. Not like now.

He remembers walking out, when she asked him to kill her – no, that's not right, it wasn't until she'd said those stupid words: I love you. Then he'd left.

He remembers looking at her and thinking, _You are pathetic. You're nothing more than a pest, Lori, a Goddamn pest. Why do you even exist?_

And now, now she doesn't… but he wants her to.

He wants her to because she was his friend.

* * *

The rain has stopped, and all of the clouds have gone away, when he wakes in the morning, but he knows they were there. He knows because he'd dreamed of Lori.

It had been a long time since he'd dreamed about her, since he'd visited her at the hospital. He'd only really gone once, and, even then, he'd left again almost as soon as he'd arrived. Her mom had been there, and a man he'd supposed was Gary. (Gary, who he may or may not have hated.) He didn't stick around to find out if the guy was Gary or not.

He lays in bed, trying to imagine the sound of the rain, but he isn't in the mood. He has work, and even though he's not in the mood for that, either, he still has to go. No choice.

He gets up and gets ready for work, the whole time, feeling like he'd love nothing more than to go back to bed and sleep. Dreaming about Lori hadn't made for a very good sleep. When he'd woken, he'd felt as if he'd just lay down – not as if he'd been sleeping for hours. It sucked.

Stuck in traffic, he thinks about coffee, not about Lori. He leaves the radio off, he doesn't even try for the local weather. Later, maybe. He doesn't want to hear whatever it is they're playing on the radio these days. It'll only scramble his thoughts more, and bring them back to Lori. Lori, who had known all of the new songs.

Damn it! Why couldn't the traffic move along? He was doing it again, thinking about Lori when he didn't want to be.

Still, he supposes he could think about her all he liked because he wasn't likely to hurt her. He couldn't do anything to her that could be worse than what she'd done to herself. She was safe. _She_ was. But he isn't.

_Stop it. Stop thinking about her, Eric_, he tells himself.

He reaches over and switches on the radio. Fuck it all, he needs to know if there'd been some sort of accident on the road. The traffic is virtually at a standstill and he's going nuts waiting for something to happen.

He skips through a couple of channels playing songs he doesn't know either the names to or the artists who sang them, and finally finds a channel airing a news update. There's nothing about any accident, just some crap about the sports and more rain on the way.

He looks out the window. Sure enough, the clouds had pulled back in.

He winds the window down and sighs, but the air only smells like exhaust fumes and the road.

* * *

He falls asleep at his desk and misses lunch. Nobody bothers to wake him until lunch is done, then the servers start playing up and he hardly gets much done at all. Great.

He walks back to his car, listening to the distant sounds of thunder and the closer sounds of traffic, but, even though it's pouring rain outside, it's so hot and humid in the underground parking that he almost can't breathe.

It's bloody awful.

He stops, on his way home, at a diner out of the center of town, and buys himself a burger and a coffee and watches the rain on the window. A game is playing over the television set in the corner, but he doesn't find a seat from which he'll be able to see it; he doesn't even turn and look what it is. It doesn't interest him at all.

He thinks about how he's going to sleep tonight, but maybe he won't dream of Lori at all.

* * *

They're sitting on one of the picnic tables by the lake, the way Cristofuoro would sit on tables; not _at_ them. Lori is counting blackberries she'd picked from a bush and now holds in her palm, staining it red as she pushes the berries back and forth, eating one, then counting them all again.

He looks at her, and wonders what happened to her glasses. Back when she'd been a kid, she'd worn glasses. Where had they gone?

She turns, slowly, and lifts her eyes to meet his. "Want one?" she says, of the berries.

He doesn't. Hell no! He doesn't say so, though. Says, "What is this, Lori? Russian roulette? Let's see how many I can eat before I die of poisoning?"

"They're not poisonous," she says, "they're blackberries. Blackberries aren't poisonous."

He makes a point to roll his eyes. "What if they're poisoned, Lori? They're weeds!"

"They are not weeds!" Lori protests. "You can't eat weeds!"

He shakes his head. It's not worth it to argue the point with her. He looks out over the lake. It's so calm today.

"Anyway," Lori goes on, suddenly, "the leaves look fine to me. If it'd been poisoned, the leaves would look sick, or something. You'd be able to tell."

He says nothing. The picnic table is too hard. He's sick of sitting around waiting for Lori to finish her stupid berries. "Shut up, Lori," he says, like she's stupid and it hurts his head to listen to her words, though she hasn't said a word in what must be half a minute.

He doesn't hear her tip the remaining berries in her hand onto the skirt of her dress, but he definitely feels when she punches him in the arm. He almost whips around and punches her back, or grabs her hair and smashes her head on the crappy, too-hard table.

His eyes are narrowed and she's smiling. She's fucking smiling.

"I wasn't saying anything, dummy," she tells him, still with that smile on her face.

He makes an effort to stop glaring. He half imagines it makes him look like some loony.

She laughs. Just for a second. She's not looking at him anymore, not really. She's looking at a spot just in front of him, like a spot of thin air, or whatever.

It annoys him. But it'd annoy him even more if she was _staring_ at him, he supposes.

He watches her breathing, like maybe she's out of breath, even though she hasn't been running or doing anything strenuous. He watches the neat rise and fall of her chest, and even though he hates that he's now the one staring, he can't seem to stop.

_Maybe it was the laughing_, he thinks, trying to distract himself, and, then, suddenly, she's wiping her mucky, dark red palms on her dress – oh, yuck! – and he stares at her with a look like he's never seen anyone quite as disgusting in his life before.

_You're gross!_

She picks a berry from her lap, and pops it in her mouth, looking out at the lake, now. "It's so peaceful here," she says quietly, like she's afraid of upsetting the tranquility.

"No it isn't," he wants to say. "The road is just over there, Lori. How can it be peaceful?" But he doesn't say anything. He shuts up. She's not staring at him like he's someone she thinks she might have a chance with, like he's really a good guy, and he doesn't feel like reminding her of this fact.

She's almost finished all of the berries, now, and he realizes that he hasn't stopped staring at her. What is he waiting for, he wonders, but nothing comes to mind. Maybe he's just amazed that she's not blabbing, or that she's eating something without pulling a face or spitting it back out. Or how happy she is, just eating some berries off a bush by a lake.

A tear slips down her face suddenly, and he notices that she's not smiling, she's not happy.

"Lori," he says, in a voice that might otherwise have been used to voice some complaint. _God, why the Hell are you crying? Can't you stop with all of the shit for two seconds?_

"Lori! Lori, Lori, Lori!" She turns on him, and her eyes are full of tears and anger.

What now!

"Why do you keep saying that? Why do you keep calling me by that name? Aren't we all the same to you? Don't we all make you want to be ill? People! They're all fucking disgusting! With their fucking shitty emotions, and their fucking words! STOP CALLING ME THAT!"

She leaps away from the table, the last two berries hit the ground, and she races away.

"Lori!" he calls after her, even though it's not really logical. He'd wanted her gone, and now she's gone. But he supposes it's what people expect, and if he lets himself slip up once, then he'll let it happen again. He can't risk it. So he calls after her.

She doesn't turn back, just keeps running.

He leaves the table and takes chase. Wherever she thinks she's going, he has no idea, but he follows her anyway. "Lori!"

He's not very far away from her when she stops. Just stops. And turns.

He sees her looking at the water, and he runs faster. Wants to shout, _Don't be a fucking fool, Lori! You can't swim!_ but he supposes that's the whole point.

Maybe she thinks she'll suddenly learn how, like she'd imagined she'd suddenly like curry, when she'd never, ever had it before in her life. How the fuck would she know?

Or maybe she thinks, _You won't hold me, you don't want me, but the water will, the water doesn't care. It's not alive. And I don't want to care anymore._

Her hair sways in a breeze that's just blown in, and she's crying. She's already a part of the water; she's already made her mind up. _Well fuck you, Lori_, he thinks angrily. _I'm older and I don't agree with your choice!_

It's a frightening thought – it's not him, not really – and it almost makes him stop, it almost makes him give up: _Do what you want, Lori._ It's not like he makes it a habit to care about others, or their life choices.

Then he changes his mind.

She's just too young. How does she know if she wants to live when she's barely even begun to live?

She turns to look at him, and she steps into the lake.

"What do you fucking think you're playing at?" he shouts. She's on the ground, on the shore – she's getting her dress even dirtier – and he's on top of her, holding her arms tightly. She's not going to make a fucking run for it!

"Let me go," she says, trying to keep her voice level. It doesn't work; it still shakes.

He fights not to smile: _See! See, Lori! See how trustworthy I am! See how nice I am!_

"Let me go."

"I don't think so, Lori," he says. "I can do anything I want to do. Didn't you say that, Lori? You want to play like you don't care, hmmm? What did you think, that I'll take pity on you and suddenly decide to care? Is that what you wanted, Lori?"

He laughed. "Well, guess what, Lori fucking Cranston, you just got your wish! It's a dream come true, Lori. Don't act like you don't want it, suddenly!"

He didn't know why he was going on, why he had to say anything, anyway, why he had to justify himself to her. It wasn't as though he was trying to impress her or anything, not like she'd tried so hard to impress _him_. But if he stopped talking, he didn't know what would happen after that.

Much to his dismay, Lori has nothing left to say to him, and he finds, suddenly, that he has nothing to say to her. He could slap her, but then he might not stop. He could call her all sorts of names, but that wouldn't be helping the situation. Her self-esteem sucked, it would only suck even more after he'd finished cussing her out.

He tightens his grip on her arms – that seems like a start – and watches her breathing, waiting for it to calm down. Maybe he'd leave her alone, if she calmed down enough to decide not to try and drown herself.

Finally, he's had enough of staring at that dumb sweater she's wearing, and he directs his gaze elsewhere. When he looks in her eyes, she doesn't look scared, and he is almost glad, until he realizes that that's just because she's waiting for him to snap and that was probably what she'd wanted all along (to get as far away from this miserable, stinking world as fast as possible).

"It isn't all miserable and stinking," he feels like saying, but like she'd ever take his word for it. Like she'd ever believe him. According to her, people make him want to chuck his guts up, after all. Well, he'd said it. People who allowed other people to see that they had feelings were a total turnoff. He'd might as well have said, "Whoever coined the phrase, _Sharing is caring_, was off their rocker. I don't call that caring, I call that psychological torture!"

He contemplates that look in her eyes, contemplates what he could do with her – poor, tragic Lori – and decides, What the Hell, she did save him from those cops, right?

So he kisses her. (_Please, please don't let me get any unsavory germs!_) _Good job, Lori._

* * *

It's the alarm that wakes him, and, for its efforts, he throws it across the room where it lands on the floor with a sound awfully like breaking. He's not happy this morning, not after _that_ dream. He swears he can still taste Lori's God awful blackberries, no matter how many glasses of water he has. He can still feel Lori beneath him, her chest rising and falling in the most delicious (and at once disgusting) way possible.

Then, as he drives to work, he can't stop thinking about her standing in that motel room in nothing but a towel, staring at him with that look on her face. He can't get her words out of his thoughts, "I thought you were just shy." And the worst part is, a small part of him can't help thinking, _If that's what you want, Lori._

He wonders if it's something he caught, like a cold or some other virus, because Eric Komenko doesn't think shit like that. If he likes the girl, the nicest thing he can do is kill her quickly. (Not like his parents.)

But what the fuck! Just, _what the fuck!_ He hasn't so much as laid eyes on Lori in six years, he doesn't even know if she's still alive (still a vegetable, after he pulled her out of that freezing, fucking water and revived her – for what?), and now he's dreaming about… about… Goddamn it!

After work, though he can't help thinking it a crazy, crazy fucking idea, he stops by Lori's hospital. It's not as though he's expecting to find her dead and gone, and now he's in for it for the rest of his life – Lori's haunting him – he doesn't believe in all that, but he thinks, _What the Hell!_, and decides to go anyway.

Lori would be – what – 21. A real young woman.

He slaps the thought away. _Yeah, Eric, and do you need to be imagining what Lori looks like now. 'A real young woman!' Sure, sure. Could you stop thinking about Lori that way for three fucking seconds!_

"What way?" he almost wants to rebuke himself. "I'm not thinking about Lori in any way other than that she was my friend, for a little while. So shut the eff up!"

Of course, that's not healthy mentally – talking to oneself – so he doesn't. Instead, he busies himself with making it to Lori's room without getting stopped.

And then, he's there. He's right there.

Standing in front of Lori's door.

And when he opens it… Lori's not there. Someone else is.

_Fuck, fuck! Damn it! Fuck!_

He makes a quick exit, before he has the urge to hit anything (or anyone), and puts some heavy metal music on over the radio on the drive home. It hurts his head, but isn't that the point?

* * *

The weekend cheerfully sees clear, blue skies and fine, warm weather. Too bad he's not as cheerful, and the weather only makes his mood darker.

He drops by the supermarket for an ice cream, and ends up buying a multi-pack instead. He sits outside the shop and sees how many he can eat before he needs to throw up, but, luckily, he supposes, a couple of kids come by, and he can offer the rest to them, instead of letting them go to waste. The kids are quite happy about the ice creams, and talk to him for a while about the nice weather and about some cartoon they were fans of from the TV.

He had no idea why some random kids might be telling some random stranger stuff like that, or if it was safe to encourage them to do so, but he didn't say anything, just listened, and then, thankfully – blessedly – they wandered off again.

Much to his amazement, he hasn't thrown up yet, even with the midgeteers yapping away about their inconsequential rubbish, and he stands up to return to his car and drive to the aquatics center, just like he does every Saturday.

* * *

He swims ten laps and stops by the pool's edge to think, and hopefully relax. Ten laps is hardly anything, compared to his usual regimen of 30, but he's strangely sick of swimming. He's not even interested in the women, today.

That makes it official. Though he has no idea what it could be, it's definitely something. He's sick, he decides. Maybe that's why he's always tired, too.

_No, Eric, that's not why you're always tired_, a voice in the back of his mind says. _It's because you have nothing to live for; nothing to make you want to do anything but bloody sleep. Get a life, would you!_

But he can't do that. Just like he can never approach those women he admires. Because then he'll want to kill them, and then that'll be the whole game up.

He's not going back to jail. He's not!

Some things, it's okay to want them. And, sure, it's even okay to go after them. But other things, it's not okay to want, and it's definitely not okay to go after them.

He's learnt to think about the things he needs, and not just the things he wants. And if he can't learn to care about other people, at least he can tick all of the boxes to pretend that he does, at least he can put on a commendable front.

_Good job, Eric, old boy._

But that doesn't mean he's allowed to have what he wants. Not even for a second. It's called _homicide_ and it's not even as though the ones he wants are particularly bad people. They're just people.

_Like me_, he always reminds himself. People.

At the edge, he starts swimming towards the other end of the pool again – the pool never manages to smell like that lake did – and stops in the middle, not even treading water. He starts to sink downwards, but it doesn't bother him. He keeps his eyes open, even though the chlorinated water stings, and pretends like he's expecting to see Lori waiting there for him, her hair swaying and hovering about her head in an otherworldly manner in the water.

But there is no Lori. For a brief second, he's actually disappointed. No Lori. And then he's relieved.

_I didn't hurt you, Lori_, he thinks, _you hurt yourself. I might have been indifferent when you were trying desperately to reach out to someone, but I still didn't push you. You did that yourself. You decided on the end for yourself._

_I might actually have been hurt, Lori. Though, in honesty, I'm not sure if it was because I was pissed that I'd be blamed and get sent back to the slammer, or because I'd actually started to care._

_But I cried, Lori. I swear I cried. What more did you want from me?_

_I was brave enough to start again – after all, I had no choice, did I? – but you, you couldn't just let it go and start over. Why, Lori?_

_Would it have been different if I'd said, "Yes, you can start over with me? We can do it together"? But, Lori, don't you think you were being selfish? Putting that all on me? It's not me, Lori, who killed you – it was you. It's my life, and I didn't want you in it, ruining it. How is that selfish, Lori? I'd have ruined your life, too, if you'd stuck around? Can't you see that yet?_

_Have the decency and courage to let go now, Lori. It's not giving up, it's being strong and doing what's right. Let go, Lori. You're not a bad person, you never were, so don't do this._

_Give yourself a break, Lori._

_I'm sorry I couldn't love you back, but that's just the way it goes sometimes, in life. I'll probably never love anyone, and do you think that makes me particularly happy? It doesn't, Lori, but I'm telling you, you couldn't have saved me if you'd wanted to. And I couldn't have saved you. We each have to save ourselves. We have to make that decision ourselves. Do I want this, or not?_

_If we don't, then no one in the world can help us, Lori. No one._

It's calm, under the water, and he focuses on the calmness. He's not been under too long, and he knows he can stay a bit longer, so he does. It's nice. It's calm. It's almost like being someplace else. There's none of the rowdy noise of the pool; it's all quite calm now.

It doesn't last long, though, before someone has apparently decided he's suffered some sort of attack and must be rescued before he drowns. Personally, he'd never step in to rescue anyone who'd drowned. _Look at the good it did Lori, after all_, he thinks. Lori died in her sleep, and when you can't say "Fuck you", or "I love you" for the last time, that really bloody sucks. Maybe Lori wasn't even there anymore when she died, he thinks, on second thought, maybe it was just an empty body her spirit was unable to connect again with or to leave until the body finally wore out and expired.

He's coughing, by the time they reach the surface of the water, and, through furiously blinking eyes, he realizes that his rescuer is a woman.

The woman has already deduced that he wasn't taken by some ill turn, because she immediately starts off by saying, "What were you doing down there?"

But he can't say anything back to her.

There's something wrong with this whole picture, and he almost doesn't take her hand when she offers to pull him out of the pool. She's not too big, but she's obviously willing to give it a shot.

"Nothing," he says, when he's finally able to speak, once more, and the woman nods.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," he snaps.

She tilts her head a little to the side in a quick motion, as though she's sending him up for snapping at her when he'd been trying to convince her he was fine: Some convincingly convincing tone, eh? Or maybe she was just flicking the hair away from her face. The smile on her face suggests otherwise.

She crosses her arms, and says brightly, "You look like you could use a coffee. I know I could. I'll pay."

He doesn't do anything but stare.

"Yes? No? Get away from me, weirdo?"

He frowns, and she grins.

"Is that a 'yes'?"

"I could go for a coffee," he replies, and the normalcy of his voice actually scares him more than the fact that this woman looks the spitting image of Lori, or what he'd imagine Lori at 21 would look like.

Except, she's nothing like Lori.

She starts to turn, to walk away, and he says, "Ah, I apologize if I freaked you out before, I was just… getting away from the racket for a moment, you know."

"Totally understandable," the young woman answers, with a smile. "So, I'll meet you outside in ten minutes?"

"Sure," he hears himself say, though he's already thinking, that with ten minutes, he could be out of here and far away.

She waves and walks away.

He tries not to watch her go. Lori is dead. Lori died that day at the lake. He brought her back, but not all of her came back, part of her stayed behind, stuck, waiting for the rest to join her, waiting for the day she'd be free. He'd been wrong to bring her back when she'd chosen to leave, but he'd been afraid. He'd been thinking about himself, not about Lori. If he'd spared Lori a single thought that hadn't begun and ended with _You make me sick_, _You're worthless_ or _You're always in the way, get lost_, then maybe Lori wouldn't have chosen to take her own life, but he hadn't cared less. Not one iota.

* * *

He doesn't flee, he decides to stick it out, to, at least, find out the girl's name. When she reappears, it's still looking a heck of a lot like Lori, but now she's a woman, not a teenage girl, and he finds himself noticing that fact particularly, and that's very disconcerting. Lori was never his type of girl, to begin with, so this, now, is very, very strange. Under ordinary circumstances, he'd never have found a girl like Lori a turn on, so whatever is up definitely needs sorting out real soon. He doesn't find the thought that, soon, he might just feel like killing practically any cute, young woman he came across very comforting; it was bad enough as it was.

The young woman is wearing a summer dress that does her figure justice in a way that would undoubtedly be very satisfying to most men, but gives Eric a painful feeling inside and makes him think of fingernails scraping on a blackboard. She has a great figure, that much is true, but Eric's horribly afraid to look at her, even when they're walking side by side.

He listens to the sound her tennis shoes make on the pavement, to keep his mind off what he wouldn't mind doing to her (and what the law would take a very, very dim view of, indeed).

They walk a couple of blocks – three or four – and stop in at Starbucks. The young woman orders them coffees, he tells her how he likes his coffee, but doesn't wait in line with her, instead, opting to find them a table and grab up a magazine (for motoring enthusiasts).

Sooner than he'd like, the young woman is back. He tries to keep his eyes on the magazine, but his eyes don't want to do that. When she sits down across the small, round table, she smoothes her skirt down over her thighs with her hands, and he refrains (with great difficulty) from gritting his teeth and saying, "Would you mind not doing that?"

He should leave, but he can't. Not until he's learnt her name.

She reaches her hand across the table. Her fingernails aren't painted, she's pretty vanilla really. The observation irritates Eric. Yeah, wasn't that what Lori had said about herself. No tatts, no piercings: vanilla.

"Lori," she says, and Eric's heart about stops in his chest.

"Eric," he replies, and he's Mr. Pleasant, himself.

She smiles, and it's the kind of smile that warms her whole face. It's not a Lori smile, and he can't help thinking, _Why the fuck did you choose me, Lori?_

And then he thinks: _Lori! Oh God!_

Lori doesn't say anything further, and neither does he, and so Lori continues smiling at him, and he goes on watching her, until someone calls Lori's name and she stands up to collect their coffees.

He lets himself watch her walk away, thinking, _It's Lori. It's Lori._, just to see what will happen, but the only thing that happens is that he wishes they weren't here, in this place, with so many other people, that they were someplace more private.

Lori or not, he wants her.

He tries instilling some reality back into his thoughts – _Damn it, Eric. It's Lori! You remember Lori?_ – by the time Lori gets back with their drinks, but the attempt fails as soon as he sees her coming back over. It could be that dress, the way it hugs her thighs when she walks, but he doesn't want to think about it too closely.

Not even her tennis shoes do much to help. Sure, they're no sandals; they're certainly not high heels, but what about that body?

He feels nauseous.

Lori puts their drinks down at the table and sits down to rip open her sachet of white sugar and add it to her caramel latte with pink sprinkles on top.

"Sprinkles?" he questions, for something to say. He's trying not to think about how much he wants to suggest they leave and take their drinks with them; they are, after all, in paper cups.

"Yeah, they're cute," Lori tells him. "I know, it's pretty childish."

He shrugs and says the stupidest thing he could possibly say to that, "I think it's endearing."

"Yeah?"

At the sight of Lori's smile, he almost leaps out of his chair and bolts. It's ridiculous, really, what her smile can do to him. It's not entirely sane, he thinks, with a sudden, irrational fear that, this time, he's really gone 'round the bend; this time, he won't be able to stop himself from doing anything rash or stupid, or whatever the Hell comes into his mind.

But, with a small smile of his own, he replies back, "Well, yeah. It is." And feels like melting and hiding under the table… or under the carpet.

Lori shakes her head, and sighs, then takes a sip of her caramel latte.

"So, Lori, what is it that you do?" he asks.

"I'm a student. I'm studying to be a nurse."

He nods.

"And what do you do?"

"I work in an office. Number crunching, that sort of stuff."

"Answering telephones?" she asks with a big smile.

"On occasion," he replies, not entirely liking the direction of her last question. "If it's called for."

Lori looks at her drink suddenly. "Eric, I know this might seem a bit forward, but… I know we've only just met, but I get the feeling you're a good person. I've almost finished my training and I thought… I might like a baby." She closes her eyes. "I'm sorry. My- my mom's sick, and… and I don't know… She always wanted grandkids." She opens her eyes and looks him in the eyes, no longer smiling. "I'm sorry to freak you out like this, but… when I saw you, I just liked you. It's… silly. I'm sorry."

"I don't think it's silly," Eric says, "it's just a damn odd thing to ask a stranger."

Lori drops her face into her hands. "I'm sorry. I've upset you and I've embarrassed myself. I'm stupid. I…" She lifts her hands out of her face and reaches for her paper cup. "I think I'll go. I'm sorry, again."

He watches her stand up, but it isn't until she's rounded the table that he places a hand on her arm. "Lori-"

Her eyes snap to his, and it disconcerts him how they're so wide and pleading. He can't quite make out what they might be saying, _Please just let me go_, or _You'll really help me?_

"Lori, I-"

"I wouldn't stop you from seeing your child, or from… from having joint custody, if that's what you want," she babbles.

"Lori, I'm sorry to hear about your mother, but I'm not sure it's such a good idea, what you have planned."

A part of her seems to deflate, as he watches. She'd been hoping he'd say, yes, he could help, he can tell.

"You're young," he begins, but doesn't get much further.

"And my mom's dying."

He leaves his cup at the table, and stands. It seems like the right thing to do. He lets his hand fall from her arm, and takes her drink and places it down beside his. To the outside world, he's sure he has on his most caring, most sensitive expression, an expression they'd easily buy, but Lori's eyes are so, so sad still.

He takes her in his arms and holds her. Nothing else. He just holds her.

And she cries.

* * *

2.

Before she leaves, Lori scribbles down her number for him on the back of an old parking ticket. He's not sure if it's for him, in case he ever changes his mind, or for her, in case she needs someone to talk to.

Anyway, he gives her his number in return.

He's glad to see that back of her, though. He hadn't been too happy about having to comfort her; he'd been worried she'd notice how aroused she'd made him, and try to make something of it. If she noticed, though, she'd kept quiet about it.

Once she's gone, he makes a beeline for the toilets. No way is he driving home the way he is now. He can't even think about anything else besides Lori. Lori's eyes, Lori's smile, Lori's Goddamn legs. Lori, Lori, Lori.

For a moment, he actually wants to slap himself, but he can't afford to, really. How he'd explain that one away – if it left a mark – he has no clue, so he refrains. He sits down in one of the cubicles, instead, and tries to school his breathing into a calmer, steadier mode, into a softer rhythm.

But his thoughts always keep going back to Lori.

God, she looks good these days. God, she's so grown up. God, he wants her.

He feels ill. Really, Goddamn ill! He can't work it out quite. For a second, or two, he actually thinks… maybe he should tell someone. Maybe he should look up Cristofuoro and… and ask for his advice. But only for a few seconds, before he decides, _Like Hell!_ The guy's not his father, his father's dead.

Not that they'd ever been so close.

He closes his eyes and thinks of the lake, of letting Lori go, and then changing his mind. He thinks of the trees, and the water, and the stillness of it all.

And then there is Lori. Falling. Sinking. She's not even really struggling. She won't let him help her help herself; she wants to die, she really wants to die. He tries to help, but… it's so cold. He can't see her anywhere. He wishes he'd never listened to her; he wishes he'd told her, "I don't owe you shit, Lori. Where'd you get that stupid, hair-brained idea?"

And then, there is the moment when he sees her, when he tries to pull her out of the water, to save her, but she's gone already. So he lets her go.

He can't remember how long it was he lay in that boat, just lay there, before he decided that he wasn't having it. One minute this, the next minute that. It wasn't on. Besides, if anyone should have felt like killing themselves, it was him. Lori had never killed anyone.

Once, she'd even tried to save him.

That was when he'd suddenly thought, _This is it. This is what I owe you, Lori. Not some crappy boat ride. I should have told you before. I should have said, "Look, Lori, you're a good person. Try to have a nice life. And don't do anything I wouldn't." I should have given her some Goddamn hope._

He opens his eyes. He feels better already. He hadn't just wasted his time, both their times, by going back for Lori. Look at her now – she was alive. If he'd been able to feel proud of anyone else, he supposes that, right now, he'd have felt proud of Lori.

He gets to his feet slowly, and decides to go home.

* * *

When he dreams about Lori, they're back at the lake. But this isn't the Lori he'd dreamt about before, this is Lori grown up. She's sitting at the picnic table, drawing a picture in her diary. She's drawing a little girl offering her mother a bunch of flowers.

Maybe it's a cute picture, he doesn't really go in for that sort of thing, but he notices that Lori's eyes have gotten all watery – right, her mom's sick, isn't she – and he takes the pen away from her and closes the diary, placing the pen on top of it.

"It'll be alright, Lori," he tells her. "Your mom doesn't want to die."

But Lori is shaking her head. He can't hear what she's saying, at first, she's just mumbling, and then, finally, he makes out the words: "I don't know."

Tears are running down her face now, and he thinks he should do something. He's a nice young man, isn't he? Any nice young man would do something, would try to say something to cheer her up, or offer her a hug or what have you.

He thinks about that, and finally nods. Yes, why not. "Come here," he says to her. "Come here. It's not all as bad as you think."

He holds out his arms, and Lori shuffles closer to rest her head on his shoulder.

"There you go," he says. He doesn't even mind holding her, or the way she's shaking, trying not to cry too loudly.

She's Lori. Lucky Lori.

He smiles. "It's going to be alright. Just you wait and see, Lori."

* * *

It's only half past nine, there about, when he wakes. He tries to get back to sleep, but the feeling eludes him. He puts on the TV, but he can't stomach it just at the moment. He has a coffee – for whatever reason – and goes back to bed.

Then he remembers Lori giving him her number.

He goes outside to the car – it's cold outside – and looks around in the glove compartment for Lori's number. When he finds it, he sits back in the car and thinks about going back to bed, about doing the right thing. Lori's probably asleep; he'd hate to ring her.

Though, actually, he wouldn't really hate it all that much. He's not that sort of guy. He can tell himself any decent guy'd hate to ring her at this hour, but it's just that, a story. It's not what he's feeling.

So he goes back inside, grabs his cell phone, and dials Lori's number.

As it turns out, Lori isn't asleep. He can hear the soft murmur of the television when she answers, "Lori Cranston here. Who is this?"

He imagines the light cast by the television, illuminating her face; he imagines her waiting for his answer with a slightly questioning expression in her eyes. "It's Eric. From-"

"Oh, Eric!" She laughs. "How are you?"

"Well, I'm alright. What about you?"

"Yeah, great."

"Lori?"

"Yeah?"

"I was wondering…"

"Yes, Eric?"

_Man, Lori's so easy!_ he thinks, but he can't allow himself to get complacent. "Maybe… No, it's stupid!"

"Of course it's not stupid, Eric," Lori replies. "Tell me… what you wanted to tell me. Go on."

"I thought you could come over… and… we could talk. I-"

"No, that's a lovely idea, Eric," Lori cuts him off. "Can't sleep, hey? Me either. I'd like that very much. Where would you like to meet?"

He tells her where he lives, and she promises to be over soon. He puts his phone down, and frowns. _Fuck, Eric_, he thinks, _aren't you just a lovely guy? What the Hell are you planning to do? Kill her? You were going to let her go, remember? Not for just a day, or a year, or six years? For the rest of her life! Don't you have _any_ Goddamn compunction?_

He stands up. _Shut up! We're just going to talk. So you can shut the fuck up!_ It's crazy, arguing with himself like this, but that's what happens, he supposes, when you have no one else to talk to.

* * *

Soon enough, the buzzer by the door is ringing, and there's Lori, all smiles, wearing a warm jacket. "Do you like apples?" she asks, immediately. "I brought apples."

"I guess I don't mind them," he replies, inviting her inside, and frowns when he sees she's still wearing her slippers. "Ah, Lori-"

"Yes?" She looks at him, plastic shopping bag full on apples in hand, and finally she lets her gaze follow his, to her blue slippers. She laughs. "I guess that's why the cashier was giving me such a funny look," she says. "I thought maybe I had something stuck in my teeth. What a dummy!"

"No," he shakes his head. "We all forget stuff occasionally."

They've walked into the kitchen, and Lori stops by the kitchen table and places the bag of apples down. "Do you mind?"

"No, no, go ahead."

"Thanks. You have a nice place, Eric."

"Yeah?"

"Definitely. Yeah," she agrees. "It's so nice and neat. I have stuff all over the place." She sighs, and frowns suddenly. Then she walks over and smiles. "Listen to me, going on. It's your time. From now on, I'll shut up and listen. Okay. Promise."

"You don't have to do that," he hears himself say. "I like hearing you talk." It's a ridiculous thing to say, not the least that, under the circumstance, it's even more ridiculous, and horribly, horribly out of place, horribly rushed. She's standing too close and he just can't stop himself from saying stupid things. And that _is_ stupid.

_Calculate_, he thinks. _Slow down, and calculate._

Lori has stopped smiling, and the way she's staring into his eyes is painful. "You don't have to say that," she tells him. "You can be honest with me, Eric."

He doesn't know what to say to that. Maybe, if she was anyone else, he'd backhand her. To suggest that he hadn't been honest, that he wasn't being honest. Instead, he just stares back at her, at a loss for words.

She's Lori, she'll think of something to say.

But she doesn't, and he's been staring at her in silence for far too long, already. He should have said something. Asked her if she followed the game, who she barracked for. What about this weather?

Anything.

He starts to say, "Lori-" but she stops him from saying anything more – with a kiss.

After that, he can't do anything but kiss her back. He'd have yelled at her for her idiocy, if he could just stop kissing her, but that's not happening, and, damn it, she was the one who started it.

He doesn't know how, but clearly somehow, they end up in the hallway, then the bedroom – it's not as though Lori would know where that was, either – and they're on the bed. Lori's keeping her hands to herself, for the most part, save for that first kiss, but he can't reciprocate. He can't stop touching her, trying to get her clothes off; if she'd ever told him in the past that anyone had used her, and hurt her, he can't remember that. _She_ kissed _him_, damn it!

But Lori isn't complaining. She's not saying _no_. But maybe she should be.

* * *

He stops kissing her, for a moment, busy trying to get her shirt off, and asks, "Are we maybe going to fast? Should we slow down?"

"No," Lori says, and lifts her shirt the rest of the way over her head, letting it drop to the floor beside the bed.

He stares at her; at her warm, glowing skin, at her full, round breasts, and gives her a shove, just enough that she falls back on the mattress, and he can join her. He grins. "Hell, no!"

Lori pats his hair, smiling, but he doesn't feel one bit like a teddy bear.

She's not wearing a bra – which is fine by him – and he bends over and brings his mouth down to her breast. When he takes it in his mouth, Lori makes a small moaning sound, and he quickly files it away in his memory.

He runs a hand down her side, to her stomach, and though it's not buff or anything, it's so soft and warm, and the tiny, little bulge of un-toned muscle makes him smile. Clearly, she's not a gym freak.

It's good to know, though he doesn't imagine that she'll suddenly bust out the ninja moves and beat him to a quivering pulp. She sounds happy. At least, the sounds she's making sound happy. And she's stopped stroking his hair.

She trails a small, warm hand down his back and he shivers and pauses to meet her eyes.

"I can't remember if I've done this before, but you're doing perfectly," she tells him.

"You can't- Never mind."

She closes her eyes, and he feels her wriggling about suddenly, kicking her legs. When she opens her eyes again, she huffs. "That was an ordeal," she shares, then her eyes widen. "You looked?"

"I swear I didn't," he defends himself, though, yeah, he did look.

"Oh," she replies, then grins. "You can if you want!"

"What's it gonna cost me?"

She laughs, and pushes him gently in the shoulder. She moans, then manages to look annoyed at herself. "Eric, can you-? Do you think-?" She bites her lip.

He thinks it looks adorable. He wants to kiss her again. "Now?" he asks, cluing onto what she'd asking, and she nods, _Yeah, right now._

She places her hand over his, briefly, and quietly asks, "Do you need me to do anything?"

He doesn't think so. He could take her right now, if he wanted. But he thinks that one over.

Lori sucks in a deep breath, and tries to smile.

He grins. "Just that lovely smile o' yours, Lori. That's all I need."

When he enters her, she gives a strangled cry of nothing in particular that hitches and dies in the middle, then her eyes go on staring.

"Lori?" he questions. It's such a nice feeling to be inside her, so warm and cozy and tight, but the look in her eyes in positively chilling. It makes him think of the lake, of choking on water.

She blinks, slowly, and allows her eyes to find his. "Eric?"

"Yeah, Lori?"

"I- I- Please keep going. It all feels wonderful. Do you- Is that how it is for you, too?"

"I guess so," he replies. She might be saying _wonderful_, but her tone is blank. Nothing but blank.

"I don't want to remember," she finally decides. "You can't live in the past your whole life. At some point, you have to open your eyes and see what's ahead. Please, Eric, give me something wonderful to remember."

How can he say _no_ to that? So he doesn't. And it isn't just wonderful for her.

* * *

It's not until half past seven that he wakes up, and there is Lori, sleeping beside him, warm and alive. He looks at her, and really thinks about smothering her with a pillow, or putting his hands around her throat and choking the last breath out of her – it would be so easy, and, he imagines, quick – but he doesn't feel the need to do any of those things. He just wants to lay beside her, maybe kiss her hair, or her mouth. Maybe he wants to shake her awake and say, "Guess what, Lori? That was the fucking bomb! Let's do it again!"

He smiles. Yeah, he definitely wouldn't say _no_ to that idea, and the more he images that smile of hers – a bit sleepy – the more he wants to do just that.

He puts the pillow over his face, and tries to stop thinking about it, but it's a little hard to do with Lori right there beside him, with her soft breaths so close by.

He takes the pillow from his face, and rests his head back on it, and snuggles up closer to her, and holds her whilst she sleeps. She's so warm, he starts to feel tired again, but it's nearly time to get up and get ready for work.

He holds her for a minute longer, then sits up. Alright, it's time to do something; time for breakfast, then work.

He thinks about waking Lori up, then decides against it. _Look how peaceful she is there, sleeping. Not even scowling. I wonder if she's dreaming about us._

_Us?_ he questions silently as he walks to the bathroom. _Yeah, us. You know. Last night. Us._

He squints against the bright, morning light, and shrugs the thought away as he reaches to turn the shower on.

* * *

Before he leaves for the day, he leaves a note on his pillow. _Help yourself to something to eat_, the note reads. _I'm off to work now, but I hope to see you again some time. Sooner the better. Eric_

She hasn't stirred, so he takes his chances and leans down to give her a quick kiss on the lips.

They don't taste like blackberry at all, and he's glad.

* * *

3.

"Eric, do you think you could possibly give up the charade for a moment or two?"

It's definitely not what he'd been expecting to hear, not after the events of three days ago – that night – and it takes him off guard, makes him upset. _What the fuck, Lori?_

"I don't know what you're getting at," he merely says, a hint of annoyance mixed with a dash of confusion and a pinch of hurt.

"Don't use that voice on me, Eric. I know you know something you're not saying. About us."

"No I don't. In fact, I don't have the first idea what you're talking about," he refutes, dialing up the hurt and confusion on the angst-o-meter.

"You don't know what I'm talking about, huh?" she says, and, despite her words, he just loves the way she says that, and the look in her eyes threatens to have him laughing.

He wants to grab her arms and pull her to him and hold her, and kiss her, and-

But he's got to keep his head in the game; he's got to stop daydreaming.

"No, Lori. That's just what I said, isn't it. I don't know. I don't know what you're talking about; I don't know what you're accusing me of; I don't know-"

"Give it a rest."

He stares at her, and there's real anger in his eyes now, and he can't fucking _help_ it!

"I know we've met before, Eric, so you might as well spill the beans now," Lori puts it to him.

The anger vanishes. "Oh, so you know!" he feels like saying.

"I should have guessed it from the moment we met, but it took me a while to figure on. Lori's not the fastest gun in the West, you know. Lori's a bit of an idiot, actually."

He's sick of hearing her calling herself _Lori_. He tries for his grownup voice, and hopes like Hell it works. "Lori, we have never met before."

She crosses her arms over that gorgeous cleavage and spits, "Bullshit!"

"Only in my dreams," he tells her.

She laughs, and, for once, he's not pissed about it, because he almost feels like doing the same himself. And he can tell it's not a _What a dickhead!_ laugh, it's actually an amused laugh.

He's pleased to know he can have that effect on her, even with such an awful line, and he's even more pleased that she hasn't shouted obscenities at him, yet. They're in a public place – the library – and he'd feel fucking embarrassed as Hell if she started running her mouth about what a jerk and a user he was.

Swiftly, she turns away from him, muttering to herself, "Damn it, Lori! Get a grip!"

He grins. _Dare you, Lori_, he thinks. _Go right ahead, but you know I'm just that good!_ For just a second, he thinks, _What the fuck, Eric! What a tosser!_ then his thoughts shoot off on a tangent. Jeez, Lori has a great butt!

Lori whips around suddenly, and he forces his expression into something approaching neutral – he's an adult, right, so he's not going to go getting all sooky-sooky when it'll only be making things worse.

"Lori," he says, plainly.

She grabs his arm. "Come with me," she says, tugging him after her. He almost doesn't know why she'd bothered to say anything when she's not giving him any other option, anyway.

He thinks about asking where they're going, but it sounds stupid – like something a little kid would ask – so he scraps the idea. Should he care where Lori's taking him? She's one hot babe.

His memory flashes back to her earlier tone of voice. _Eric, don't you think you should be taking this a little more seriously?_ he asks himself.

Yeah, probably.

"Lori, honey," he begins, though, listening to himself saying it, it sounds horribly contrived.

It's no wonder Lori snickers. She doesn't even bother to stop, not a sideways glance at him.

He decides to lose the cutesy terms of endearment; not Lori's thing, apparently. "Lori, where are we going?"

Lori doesn't answer. She's in a mood.

"Lori?"

"Shut up, Eric. Just shut up."

He's too pissed off to notice what it says on the door she stops at, and pulls him inside. He's too pissed off to notice anything but Lori. Lord, he wants to smack her one!

She thumps him against the wall. _What the-?_

She lets go of his arm, then she's suddenly unbuttoning her shirt. He notices the mirror behind them.

A toilet.

"No, don't say anything," Lori warns, her voice getting stuck up with tears. "You don't know how much I detest it when I get- when I'm so mad! You have to help me, Eric!"

"What?"

"Help me!" she pleads.

He watches the rapid rise and fall of her chest – her heart must be going like mad – the tears slowly leaking into her eyes, the way she rips at the buttons of her shirt with her small fingers, as though she means to rip them out, and reaches out his own hand to still hers, and take over unbuttoning her shirt for her.

"What's makes you mad, Lori?"

She shakes her head, scattering her tears across her face.

"You must have some idea, Lori?"

"I- I thought I was mad at you, but why should I be, Eric? Why should I be mad at you? You've never hurt me?" The tears are rolling down her face now, and her voice is breaking up.

He finishes with her shirt buttons, and brings his hand up to her face, gently caressing her cheek with his fingers.

She doesn't take her eyes from his for a second.

"Lori…" He lets his breath go, and kisses her.

* * *

4.

"Eric, are you okay?" Of course his aunt would ask this question. He's not sure about his parents – if they were alive – but, he decides, he must give it a rest with his folks all the time. They're gone, moved on. What the fuck!

He doesn't get what his aunt means by that comment, so he shrugs.

"It's just… you look troubled," she says. "Is there something on your mind? Something you'd like to share?"

"Maybe," he replies. "And no."

"No?"

"No, doll, it happens to be private," he clarifies.

His aunt stares at him.

"Look," he says, "I'm sorry for calling you 'doll' and using that tone on you, but it really is something I need to work out myself first."

"Is it about girls?"

He makes a face. _Please! Girls? Women, thank you!_ "M-maybe?"

"Eric?"

"What?" He sighs heavily, like he's making a big resolution, like what he's about to tell her is a massive concession to his privacy, but seeing as she's his aunt… and it's a super, super secret. "I like her. She's cool. She… She makes me care about her."

It figures that his aunt should pick up on this one discrepancy. He's trying to go for a little realism, a little honesty, and his aunt dives on it like it might explode and blow half the street away. "She 'makes' you, Eric? How does she make you?"

"No. It's… She's just really awesome and…"

"And?" his aunt prompts.

He doesn't know why it should be so hard putting these things into words, but it Goddamn is. "I…" He can't figure out why the words keep escaping him.

"Perhaps you should sit down," his aunt suggests, and he does that, thinking furiously, trying to find the words.

Why can't he find the words?

He pictures Lori in his mind. She's… She's just Lori. She'd beautiful and hot and every time he thinks about her, he wishes he was with her, but she's just Lori, and he doesn't know how to put that into words.

He thinks about the day before, about the toilet she'd dragged him off to to relieve her tension in. He thinks about her hot breath, close to his ear, and all of the damn adorable little sounds she'd made, he'd made her make, and she had let him.

"Eric, this girl isn't taking advantage of you, is she?"

His aunt had sat down across the table from him – give the boy some room, eh – and was now peering at him as though she may have to book him an appointment with someone, like he'd been abused or something.

He wants to say, "No, aunt, Lori isn't taking advantage of me. She's not a witch, I don't need an exorcism. I'm fine. I just happen to… to…"

"She makes me feel good about myself. About being me. She doesn't expect me to be one thing or another, just who I am, and she has confidence in me. She believes I can be… s-sociable, and… and loads of other stuff. Funny, happy, you know. And I believe it too. She's great. She makes me happy, when we're together…"

"Together, Eric?"

He rolls his eyes and sighs heavily. "Jeez, lady! Yes, together! So we… fucked! Why don't you go out and meet someone yourself and quit with the Twenty Questions already! I'm not a kid! I can… I can have a sexual relationship if I want! With any damn one I want!" He takes a deep breath. _Way to lay it on thick, Eric._

"I'm sorry," he tells her. "You just… caught me off guard. I was sorta freaked out."

"Of course you can have a girlfriend, if you want, Eric," his aunt interjects. "I'm not going to stop you. All I'm asking is that you think about what you want out of this relationship."

"Lori."

"Pardon?"

"Sex."

"Mmm-hmmm. Well, that's all very nice when you're your age, Eric."

"I reckon you could still get the guys if you wanted," Eric tells her, grinning.

She sighs.

"What? Don't tell me you don't think about it!" He laughs. "That is so sad!"

"Of course I think about it, but I also have other things to consider, as well."

"Like…"

"Like suitability, and our social statuses, jobs, companionship. The list goes on."

"Then I guess it's good to be young and free!"

"Yes, well…"

He smiles. "Don't worry about me, okay. It makes me sad. Be happy with yourself. You're a great aunt. Honestly."

"Thank you, Eric," she says.

"No need to thank me! Thank my folks, they-" He shuts up. Sort of distasteful, eh? "That was, the wrong thing to say," he adds somberly.

"Yes, they did," his aunt agrees, placing her hand over his for a second. "Do you miss them, ever?"

"I don't know. I guess… Sometimes. They were my parents. But I know… they're in a better place now, and there's no use in making myself miserable over it, is there. Because, if they're watching, I'll only be making them miserable too. And, I think I did enough… What's done is done. You can't go back, you can only go on. You can only go forward, move on. I guess I try not to think about them, so I don't miss them, but I know they loved me. I know that."

The spiel seems to please his aunt, much to his appreciation, because, a moment later, she stands up and walks around the table to hug him, before going off in search of a box of tissues.

* * *

"How's your mother?"

"Alright, I guess," Lori replies, looking into her drink with the most deject, most dismal expression he's seen on her face since they'd met up again.

"How are you?"

"Alright, I guess," she drones.

"Lori?"

She lifts her face and looks right at him. "I think I did something bad."

"What? No!"

"You don't… You don't know, Eric. You never knew me before. I… Six years ago, I had an accident, or… whatever, and I ended up in a coma. I just woke up eight months ago, and everyone was so surprised, but they wouldn't say why, and I can't…" A tear slips from the corner of her eye, and she brushes it away like it's an annoyance, like it's a pest, and she doesn't want it. She doesn't _want_ it. "I can't remember."

"That's no reason to think anything bad happened. You're not a bad person, Lori."

Her eyes shine brighter. "You hardly _know_ me, Eric! You've just met me! Stop sticking up for me! You don't know!"

"I can just tell," he replies, keeping a calm, level voice.

"No!" She shakes her head furiously. "I'm going to end up hurting you, I can see it now! I'll do something shitty, and you'll be hurt for the rest of your life! I can't do it! I can't do this! I- I just can't, Eric!"

He frowns. It's sorta amusing, but he's not laughing, and it's not just because he's playing some game. He has a sneaking feeling he knows what comes next. "What are you saying, Lori?" he asks. "Are you… Are you saying I should just leave you alone, and I can't see you again?"

She sniffs, and wipes her nose on her sleeve.

He doesn't bother telling her it's a disgusting habit, it just makes him want to hug her and tell her it'll all be okay. "Lori?"

She sobs. "Yes! I'm sorry, Eric."

"Lori, we can work this out."

"No, we can't," she says, through her tears. "I'm just no good."

"That's fucking bullshit!" he tells her loudly, angrily. "_You're_ good for me! I need you, Lori. I fucking need you."

She won't look at him now. She's buried her face in her hands, sleeves pulled up over her hands. "There are other girls. Nicer girls. You deserve someone nice."

"That's crap! I can't believe- I can't believe you're saying this, Lori. I won't… I won't give up just like that, just because you say so. I don't care if you hurt me. I don't care. Believe me. Go ahead. I dare you to try your worst! But… I need you, Lori. For fuck sake, how many times do I have to say it before it means anything to you?"

"Please go away," she sobs.

"No, Lori," he says, his voice like ice. "You think I'm such a nice guy, but I'm not. I'm nothing like the guy you think I am. I'm a fucking psychopath, do you understand! How are _you_ going to hurt _me_! I won't fucking let you, babe!"

Unable to hear any more, Lori shoots to her feet.

Eric stands up just as quick, and steps in the way to block her from leaving. "What if I love you, too?" he asks.

She won't look at him. In a voice like broken glass trying to put itself together again in effort to stand one last assault, she whispers, "Don't."

"What if I love you?"

She tries to move aside, to slip past him, but he touches her arm lightly, and she freezes, the tears still coming down her face.

"I dream about you all the time." _About saving you, Lori._ "I think I love you."

"You _think_?" she whispers. _You _think_! You don't _know_!_

"Lori, listen to me, I'm begging you to give me some more time. I want to know, I want to know _for sure_. Lori, please."

"I can't," she sobs.

"Yes, you can, Lori. You can."

"No."

"Believe me, Lori, I know bad, and you're not it. Whatever you did, however you came to have that accident, that's all in the past. It doesn't even matter any more, Lori. But you matter. You matter to me, Lori. I can't… I don't think I could go on without you. I'd go mad."

Lori sniffs, but doesn't move. "Why are you bad?"

"I killed my parents, and- Damn it, Lori, I'm trying my hardest to do the right thing, but I need- I need someone. I need someone who cares, and someone I can care for. You, Lori. I don't want anyone else, I just want you. You won me over. You _did_. I'm not saying you have to stay, if you don't want; all I'm asking for is a chance here, Lori. Please, Lori!"

"Your parents?"

He looks at the carpet. _Yes, my parents._ "My parents."

"Why?"

They're whispering now. Standing in the middle of Starbucks, talking in whispers. Nobody seems to care, though; they're just a young couple working out their differences. Maybe there'll be a happy ending, maybe there won't.

"My mother found out that I'd done something. Something bad, Lori. I- She had to go. And… my father; I don't know. Maybe because I'd already killed my mother…"

"Do you love me?"

"I don't know. I think- I think I do, Lori, but I can't be sure. I can't be sure of anything. I'm just… confused. I'm confused about everything. But you make it better, Lori. I'm not confused about you. I like you, I really, truly do. Maybe I don't love you, but I like you a lot. All I want, all I'm asking for, is a chance."

Lori brushes at her eyes. She's no longer crying. He takes this as a good sign. "If you were in my place, would you give me a chance?" she asks.

"I don't know?"

"Really?"

"Really."

She sniffs again. "Do you think you might hurt me, too? Like you hurt your parents?"

"I would never want to hurt you, Lori. And I hope to God that I never do."

She rubs her eye, looking far too sad. "I don't know what to do," she says, finally.

"Do you like me, Lori? Like I like you?"

"Yes."

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't know."

"Please, Lori. It's important."

She moves closer and rests her cheek on his shoulder. "I want- I want to give you another chance, Eric. But if you hurt me, I won't be staying."

"Fair enough," he agrees.

She sniffs, and he grabs a paper napkin from the table and passes it to her.

* * *

_Six months later_

Eric's aunt makes no comment; neither kind or unkind. She's met Lori, but she's reserving judgment on the girl for when the baby is born, and that's a good five months off, yet. Lori's mom, she thinks she can learn to get on with, but the girl is always fairly reserved around her. She only really opens up around Eric. She can tell, though, that Eric really cares for the girl. Whenever she smiles, Eric's aunt swears it's like the sun just came out. She's never seen him so happy before.

A few nights earlier, Eric had confided in her that Lori's mom was sick – real sick – and she supposes that this might be the reason Lori is so quiet. It must be quite distressing, she thinks, not knowing whether her mom will get better, or worse.

She watches Eric and Lori reading cookbooks they've borrowed from one of the local libraries, and, sometimes, they come over to try out a new recipe and cook something nice.

Eric tells her he wants to marry Lori, but she doesn't know about that. She doesn't know that it's one of his better ideas. Nonetheless, he seems serious about it. He's going to be a father soon, and he's sure as Hell sticking around for that, so why shouldn't they marry? Why shouldn't they be a family officially?

"It's your life, honey," she tells him in her most sensitive voice. She can't say that she isn't a little worried, though; not after his parents and all the rest.

One day, Detective Cristofuoro shows up, just like that, and she tells him that Eric is going to be a father soon. The news seems to give him some food for thought. He asks her how well he knows the girl, and she says not very. Her name is Lori Cranston, she's 21, and that's all she knows. Lori's a pretty quiet girl, at least around her.

Lori. He thinks that Lori's a nice name. He asks to speak to Eric, but she says he's working, and tells him where exactly so he can drop by there and see if Eric's got some time to talk.

He nods, says he'll do that, and, with well wishes, is off.

* * *

"Detective." That's just how Eric greets him.

"Eric," he returns. Then he says, "I hear your girlfriend's pregnant."

"You hear?" Eric questions, offering him a biscuit that looks homemade.

"No." He shakes his head. "Did your girlfriend make those?"

"Did Lori make these?" Eric rephrases, for him. "Yeah, Lori made them."

Cristofuoro doesn't bother faking surprise, he's sure Eric's aunt will tell him when he visits her next that he'd come by. "Lorelei Jane Cranston, eh?"

"She's gonna be a nurse someday," Eric says. "She's a smart girl."

"Hmmm…"

"You think I would hurt Lori? Or our baby? You must be mad. I'm not an idiot. I know it's not everyday a chance like this comes along, a chance someone comes along who can really care about you. Don't you think I listened? Don't you think I learnt anything from you? Even I'm not stupid enough to throw away what might be my only chance at a real life.

"So, yeah, I've made some mistakes. So, yeah, I might be fucked up. But what if I'm through with that? What if I don't want any of that anymore? What if I just want someone to love me, and someone I can love? No more hurting. No more taking without giving. That's a nasty cycle, and I'm not playing into it anymore. I won't blame anyone else for my actions, but, this time, I'm not going to fuck up.

"I love Lori, and I really couldn't give a damn if you believe me, detective."

Cristofuoro doesn't know that he _does_ believe Eric, but it's obvious the young man's thought about what he might say, that much is evident. Maybe he'll be able to control himself for a couple of years, maybe he won't, but Cristofuoro decides that he'll be watching. He'll be watching, and if Eric slipped up – just once – he would be there.

* * *

_Five months later_

When the baby is born, they name her Radiance, though it's not long before she's earned herself the nickname Rai.

That day, at the hospital, Eric decides that, when she's old enough, he's going to teach her to swim, and that she's going to be the damned happiest child in the whole town. She'll go to a great school, and she'll make a ton of friends, and she'll never be lonely. And if she ever needs to talk, she'll have all of her friends and her parents.

He's not going to let the same thing happen to Rai that happened to Lori and he, no way in Hell.

And he knows he'll have Lori, right by his side, to be the best mom, wife, and the best damn friend in the whole world.

* * *

**I'd love if you'd review, even though, yes, I know it's super sucky and lame-O. (I need to read the book.) Thanks for reading, either way. Have a great day! :-)**


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